My Cultural Diet

Inspired by a Tibetan folktale, Shuna’s Journey has many of the usual Hayao Miyazaki tropes (e.g., fantastical settings, a strong female protagonist) and touches on some of his pet themes, including both humanity’s relationship with nature and its proclivity for violence and exploitation. At the same time, it has a fairy tale-esque tone, particularly as the titular hero enters the strange lands of the god-folk — but as is Miyazaki’s wont, it’s tinged with darkness and mystery. Originally published in 1983, it might be tempting to dismiss Shuna’s Journey as a precursor to Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind and Princess Mononoke — as if you’d ever really want to dismiss anything by Miyazaki, that is. But even with all of its familiarity, I was caught up within just a few pages thanks to Miyazaki’s gorgeous watercolors, poetic storytelling, and ability to pack so much life and energy into his illustrations. First Second Books’ edition contains a brief afterword by Miyazaki as well as some notes by translater Alex Dudok de Wit that offer some helpful insights into the story’s creation and themes.

I checked out Malcolm Kid and the Perfect Song from the library on a whim, and I’m glad I did. Austin Paramore’s debut graphic novel is the charming story of Malcolm Kid, an aspiring young musician who suddenly finds himself in possession of a keyboard that’s haunted by the spirit of an old jazz pianist. The only way to set the spirit free is to find and play… wait for it… the perfect song. However, that will require Malcolm to reconnect with an old friend, explore his town’s history, stand up to his demanding father, and confront some family tragedies. Oh, and deal with a Mephistopheles-like character who takes a great interest in Malcolm’s burgeoning talent. Paramore packs a lot into his story and does a fine job of balancing it all. Meanwhile, Sarah Bollinger’s delightful artwork keeps things light with some manga-like flourishes, but never at the expense of the story’s drama and emotion.

In Earth’s final days, a group of billionaires and celebrities hatch a plan: they’ll leave Earth on a giant spaceship to make a new home for themselves on a nearby planet. In the meantime, they’ll continue to live in luxury, their every need met by children who live like slaves until their faithful service is rewarded with proper citizenship. Arca’s “eat the rich” storyline is bit on the nose; given its premise, there are really only a handful of ways it can go. Still, it’s engaging enough, and I appreciate the fact that the protagonist’s ability to read, which is outlawed, proves so important to her survival. That said, only a monster would refuse to cheer on a plucky teenager as she seeks to lead her fellow youth in rebelling against their entitled billionaire overlords.

I’m not a big fan of DC’s live-action movies. (Sorry, Snyder Cut fans.) I do, however, enjoy their animated titles, be it series like Justice League Unlimited and Batman: The Brave and the Bold or movies like Justice League: War, Justice League: The New Frontier, and Justice League Dark: Apokolips War. Which is to say, I’d really like to see an animated adaptation of House of El, a YA-focused retelling of the planet Krypton’s final days. As its title implies, Superman’s family is present but the series focuses on two young lovers from different social castes who are troubled by Krypton’s increasingly corrupt and hedonistic society — as well as the earthquakes that threaten to tear the planet apart. It might be tempting to dismiss House of El given its YA roots. However, I was never not engaged by the storyline and the series ends on a beautifully bittersweet note — as befitting any story about Superman’s doomed homeworld.

The horror genre is often used to tackle heavy issues, including religious fanaticism, mental illness, and the dangers of technology. In Infidel’s case, the issue is racism as a young Muslim woman struggles to maintain her sanity in the midst of various threats, be it the unwitting racism of her white neighbors or the supernatural threats residing in the dark corners of her apartment building. But as Infidel progresses, the line between the former and the latter grow increasingly thin. To Infidel’s credit, nothing and no one’s simple; well-meaning friends can make terrible mistakes while potential antagonists might become a surprising source of help. Pornsak Pichetshote’s storyline ventures into some pretty esoteric territory at times, but Aaron Campbell’s artwork and José Villarubia’s colors keep the terror nice and grounded.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. Earth faces an extraterrestrial threat and so humanity, desperate for soldiers, begins putting children through brutal training in order to turn them into deadly warriors. (Halo, anyone?) Orphans’ first volume isn’t bad per se, and there’s an interesting mystery or two that I assume get fleshed out in later volumes. But overall, I feel like I’ve read this storyline many times before.

A Wave Blue World’s Maybe Someday is an anthology of sci-fi stories whose purpose is to “inspire readers and restore their belief that a better world is possible.” As you’d expect, most of the stories here are intended to be positive and, if not heartwarming, then at least a nice rejoinder to the stream of bad news and negativity that often floods our news channels, social media feeds, and inboxes. Which is all well and good, but maybe I’m just too much of a cynic because I found most of the stories slight, milquetoast, and underwhelming. There are some interesting ideas here and there, but the only story that really stuck in my head is arguably Maybe Someday’s most downbeat and nihilistic one, as it follows a lonely individual intent on ensuring that Earth’s wildlife thrives in a post-human world.

Masamune Shirow’s Appleseed was one of my very first anime/manga titles back in the early ’90s, and I still have a certain fondness for it. Much of that’s due to Shirow’s mechanical designs (e.g., Briareos’ cyborg body), which have a certain organic-ness to them that still looks really cool to me (especially in the 2004 movie). That said, Hypernotes is very much for Appleseed completists only, with an 80-page story that leaves off right in the middle of the action (hence the low rating). But if I’m being honest, the only reason I checked it out was to thumb through the collection of notes and sketches of Shirow’s various mechanical designs, from the weapons employed by Briareos and Deunan to the Landmates used by Olympus’ ESWAT team.

Seven to Eternity is worth reading if only to feast your eyes on Jerome Opeña’s lush and intricately detailed art. Rick Remender has created a fantastical world that blurs the lines between sci-fi and fantasy with its super-powered warriors, floating cities, otherworldly realms, and bizarre creatures — and Opeña’s artistry, combined with Matt Hollingsworth’s colors, are more than a match for anything Remender conjures up. (The sketchbook in this deluxe edition only further exhibits Opeña’s impressive skill and attention to detail.) Story-wise, Seven to Eternity works on several levels. In its simplest form, it’s the quest of a dying man to avenge his father and defend his family from a god-like tyrant. But over the course of seventeen issues, Remender also lays bare mankind’s proclivity for self-delusion and justification, hatred, and blind adherence to ideology. And on another level still, it explores the legacies that fathers leave for their families, both good and bad. (If you’ve read Remender’s excellent Black Science, then you know he has a thing for difficult, dysfunctional father characters.) Seven to Eternity is grim and tragic throughout, with its protagonist pushed to various moral and spiritual extremes and compromises; there were a few times when I was tempted to put it down because of the direction I thought it was heading. But Remender manages to wrap things up in a suitable and satisfying manner — though it might ruin the rest of your day.

I’ve been fascinated by Dean Motter’s Mister X ever since I saw an ad for its CD-ROM in the pages of MacWorld back in the mid ’90s. Considered groundbreaking at the time, Mister X became (in)famous for its oft-delayed publication, behind-the-scenes drama, and revolving door of writers and artists that included the Hernandez brothers (Love and Rockets), Seth, and D’Israeli. Published in 2008 by Dark Horse Comics, The Archives collects the original Mister X run from the ’80s along with some other odds and ends, and it’s a very uneven work, artistically, narratively, and tonally (as you might expect given the aforementioned factors). Motter’s original premise is intriguing: Designed according to the theory of “psychetecture,” Radiant City was supposed to be a utopia. But its very architecture is now driving the citizenry insane, and the enigmatic Mister X — who claims to be Radiant City’s original architect — is desperately trying to save it without going mad himself. The original Mister X run is definitely a case where you can’t judge a book by its cover; the original series’ stunning covers, created by the likes of Dave McKean (The Sandman), Paul Rivoche, and Motter himself, suggest a far stranger and more interesting world and storyline than even the Hernandez brothers (with all of their delightfully detailed work) were able to create.

While I was reading Strange Skies Over East Berlin, I realized that I’d actually read it before. Which might suggest that this series is ultimately forgettable. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. But I will say that I wanted to like this more than I did. An American spy living undercover in East Berlin is given a new mission: track down a mysterious alien vessel that crashed behind the Iron Curtain. But what he ultimately discovers could spell doom for the entire human race. I really dug the series’ premise of a world-weary spy forced to reflect on his morally dubious career after encountering bizarre alien phenomena; imagine John le Carré (The Spy Who Came In From the Cold) writing an episode of The X-Files. Sadly, the series barely scratches the surface of its potential. Some that’s undoubtedly due to its short length, at just four issues. Brevity and efficiency are good things, but in this case, the resulting storyline and characters are just a little too thin, and left me wanting more.

Ten friends, all dealing with the various trials and tribulations of adulthood, are invited to a getaway at a remote lake house by their mutual friend Walter. Everything seems perfect: the house is beyond luxurious, the lake is gorgeous, and Walter has planned a fun-filled week for everyone. But then they discover the awful truth. The rest of the world has come to a violent end, they’re the only surviving members of humanity, and their friend Walter is, in fact, a horrific alien “flesh tornado” who’s been secretly manipulating their lives and memories for years. I love the series’ premise — Tynion describes it as “The Big Chill as a sci-fi horror story” — and Álvaro Martínez Bueno’s moody artwork is consistently gorgeous. I was thoroughly engrossed, but unfortunately, the ending’s a bit underwhelming. That’s mainly because The Nice House on the Lake’s premise is so interesting and Tynion builds it up so well (with several twists and revelations thrown in for good measure) that any resolution would probably be on the unsatisfying side.

Describing Something Is Killing the Children as a series about a highly trained young woman with special abilities who hunts down monsters will undoubtedly bring to mind Buffy the Vampire Slayer comparisons. But whereas much of Buffy’s charm lay in its willingness to embrace camp and humor, there is no such willingness here. Something Is Killing the Children is unremittingly bleak and extremely gory as the aptly (and awesomely) named Erica Slaughter travels to the small town of Archer’s Peak to confront the monster feeding on the town’s children — only to encounter paranoia, bigotry, and her own personal demons. The first three volumes contain the Archer’s Peak arc, volume four delves into Erica’s childhood and training, and volume five begins a new arc where Erica faces a powerful new monster as well as the wrath of her former allies. Between this, The Department of Truth, Justice League Dark, and his work on Batman, Tynion has become one of my favorite writers. Netflix purchased the adaptation rights to Something In Killing the Children in 2021, with Mike Flanagan first attached and then Dark’s Baran bo Odar and Jantje Friese; it’ll be interesting to see how they handle the series’ extremely graphic nature, especially where the monsters’ young victims are concerned.

I’ve liked Michael Moorcock’s Elric novels for years. They’re grim and deeply cynical — Moorcock wrote them, in part, as a rejection of Tolkien’s high fantasy — as well as deeply imaginative and fantastical. But this is the first Elric comic I’ve read. Let’s start with the positive: Julien Telo’s artwork possesses a moody edge that’s quite apropos for the doomed albino, and some of his designs (e.g., the Melnibonéan dragons) are really cool. The storyline, however, is a mixed bag. The Dreaming City adapts the first published Elric story, in which he leads an attack on his former home of Imrryr, while awkwardly incorporating elements from The Sailor on the Seas of Fate, specifically Elric’s journey to the ancient city of R’lin K’Ren A’a. The Dreaming City also downplays the Elric saga’s inherently tragic nature in order to highlight its decadence. Nowhere is this better seen than the decision to turn Elric’s lover Cymoril into a vengeful harpy clad in topless armor (which even the storytellers admit is clichéd) or changing the nature of her death. That said, highlighting the sentience of Elric’s cursed runeblade Stormbringer with a feminine aspect is an interesting decision that more explicitly states what Moorcock intimates in his writings.

This is a surprisingly difficult review to write. Like anyone who grew up in the ’80s and ’90s, I was aware of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but not through Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird’s comic book; my only real exposure was the Fred Wolf cartoon series and the arcade game. (Unlike so many of my classmates, I never did see the movies.) Thus, I started reading The Last Ronin with a weird mix of nostalgic familiarity and total ignorance. The Last Ronin, however, is clearly geared towards long-time fans; it’s filled with references and callouts to previous characters and adventures, and finds the last surviving Turtle seeking to avenge his brothers and sensei after Shredder’s grandson betrays them all. There’s an appropriately elegiac tone to the story and the new Shredder character has some interesting mommy issues. Overall though, I was left feeling a bit underwhelmed. I suspect I would’ve felt differently had I been a longtime fan, though.

The widowed Mrs. Whitaker lives a perfectly ordinary life: tending her garden, having lunch with friends, going to church, collecting her pension. That all changes when she buys the Holy Grail at a local second-hand shop and a gallant knight named Galaad arrives at her door to collect it. Neil Gaiman’s Chivalry — originally published as a short story back in 1992 — is a seemingly slight tale, but like much of his storytelling, there’s more going on below the surface. It’s an obvious and good-natured riff on Arthurian legend, but it’s also a rumination on aging, death, love, grief… you know, the casual topics. It’s also filled with delightfully understated details that spark the imagination. How to explain Mrs. Whitaker’s announcement of the Grail to her friend? What is the significance of Galaad’s geas? Why is Mrs. Whitaker so talented at recognizing magical and arcane objects? Colleen Doran’s watercolors are light and dreamy, which is quite apropos for this playful-yet-bittersweet tale. (Her afterword sheds some light on both her inspiration and process for Chivalry, as well as her own love for Arthurian legend, including Howard Pyle’s classic work.)

Ever since reading Reckless, I’ve been on the lookout for more crime noir comics. Image Comics’ Newburn features artwork by Jacob Phillips, who was the colorist on Reckless, and a story by Chip Zdarsky (Daredevil, Sex Criminals). The premise is interesting — Easton Newburn is a former detective who now works as a neutral private investigator for the city’s biggest crime gangs — and there’s all of the back-stabbing, double-crossing, and noir-ish intrigue you could ask for. But Newburn is far from a sympathetic antihero, as is his assistant Emily, so it’s hard to really care about their fate even when they’re in the crosshairs of one gang or another. Which is a shame, because the premise feels rife with thematic material (e.g., power, corruption, politics). So far, Reckless remains my favorite crime/noir comic title.

There’s a lot to like about Gideon Falls, right up until the final page. Jeff Lemire’s storyline blends horror, philosophy, sci-fi, small town mystery, and family drama as the characters try to solve the mystery of the Black Barn, a bizarre structure that holds the secrets of the universe — and possibly all of its terrors, too. Andrea Sorrentino’s artwork is phenomenal, with a sense of scope and style that perfectly matches Lemire’s storyline even at its most bizarre and trippy. There were several spreads that almost took my breath away, and several visuals that were delightful in their meta-ness. It’s a shame, then, that Gideon Falls’ ends on a cliché that probably seemed clever, but it really just feels like a narrative copout compared to the sense of ambition on display in the preceding pages.

Neil Gaiman brings the story of Morpheus, King of Dreams, to an end following the events of Volume 9. Functionally, it’s all about Gaiman tying up loose ends and various narrative threads that popped up throughout the series, from Morpheus’ immortal friend to his unique bond with a certain Elizabethan playwright to the fates of certain characters who have been in his bad graces. My favorite storyline, however, focuses an exiled Chinese sage and his brush with the world of dreams. Having finished all of the Sandman volumes, it’s easy to see why they’re held in such high regard; they’re a truly unique achievement, comic book or otherwise. That said, I admit to feeling somewhat underwhelmed. There were definitely parts that I found beautiful, thought-provoking, and moving. There were other parts, however, that dragged or were otherwise indulgent.

The most ambitious Sandman volume to date, with Neil Gaiman wrapping up several storylines from previous volumes as Morpheus is forced to finally confront his past sins and mistakes, and the impact that they’re having on his realm. It is a bit odd to read a comic series that is clearly self-contained, especially given that we live in an age of nigh-endless sequels, reboots, retcons. As a result, there’s a truly tragic and melancholy bent to Gaiman’s storyline, as Morpheus moves towards the inevitable end. But there are plenty of little details and side stories woven in, as well.